Um . . . So . . .

Apparently, if you die in a car wreck and your picture and name are on the news, that's okay. But if you died in the war and your name and picture are aired, it is undermining the war effort.

Look. Let's cut the shit Sinclair. We're not stupid. We know that people die in war. It's not being fought with whipped cream and nerf balls.

What's worse? Allowing the Nameless Soldier Who Fights For Us be given the humanity and respect due his sacrifice? Or do we let him be #499? Where are the people who say it is an honor to die for your country? If it is an honor, then let the honoree be named. Let them wear their honor in death.

Hey, I'm a pinko, pacifist, liberal pussy. So maybe I'm not the best person to judge this.

But it seems worse to me to pretend we're using robots. No matter what you think of war, the dead deserve a face and respect as much as a brave little girl lost in the desert.

People have names.

People have identities.

People have died.

People deserve respect.

Oh Boy Kids!

That's right kids, we're watching you. But don't worry, we're cool.

And, if this is how we got our prewar intelligence, no wonder why it sucked.

"Hey, Saddam, is that Steve Martin with the arrow through his head? Why is he here?"

"I don't know Tariq. But I do believe that the Moose out front should have told him we're closed today."

"Moose? That's no moose!"

Link from Boing Boing. Who, I might add, should be flogged for not linking to the CIA for Kids page earlier. Though it's understandable. It's not nearly as cool as the CDC's "Mommy What's Valtrex And Why Are You Taking It Dot Com".

Admittedly, I was disappointed when I figured out that the Bam.gov wasn't Emeril's secret agent website.

Discuss

Yes!

The Magnetic Fields are coming to The Pageant on June 29th!

You have no idea how excited I am. I can barely contain myself.

Thanks to Mike's blog for pointing that out.

I'm listening to Buddy Holly. That should show you how happy I am.

Do the happy dance. (Jim, take one for the team.)

Taking applications for a sitter.

Discuss

Your Happy Moment of the Day

When someone walks into your office and pisses you off today, and you know they will, make sure that you pull up this webpage with your speakers turned all the way up. It's the coolest webpage ever in the history of the Internet. Yes. Cooler than the Hamster Dance. Even cooler than that damned dancing baby. (Ahhh, the good old days before Paris Hilton.)

Just do it.

And a belated thanks to David for pointing out its Kirky goodness. I look at it every day and try to see where the blood stain is.

"I'll chase him 'round the moons of Nibia and 'round the Antares Maelstrom and 'round perdition's flames before I give him up."

That's what my wife says to me when I drink the last of coffee. Damn perdition's flames.

This Morning . . .

“I have a great idea, Daddy,” she says with earnestness as she stirs her oatmeal.

“What’s that,” I ask, shoving cereal into my mouth.

“We should stick together.”

I’m confused as to why a two-year-old would tell me we should stick together. It sounds like something Zero Mostel would tell me. “You and me kid, we should stick together. We’ll go a long way in this business.”

Okay. I’ll bite.

“That sounds like a great idea, honey. What made you think of that?”

“It’s for my work,” she answers without hesitation. And with that she hopped down from her chair and put her bowl in the sink. Say what you will about the little nut, she has good manners.

“Oh. Okay,” I said awkwardly.

But I knew what was going on. I finally saw Kill Bill this weekend. Baby assassin. I get it. You see, baby assassins are unexpected, unnerving. They can move quickly, and are difficult to catch. Even if you can get your hands on them, if a two-year-old doesn’t want to be picked up, she will not be picked up. Two-year-olds have perfected a move in civil disobedience that protesters world wide have been trying, and failing, to copy for years. Pick up a two-year-old who does not want to be picked up and it’s like trying to catch sentient Jell-O.

I knew she didn’t want to talk about it anymore. She was off to watch TV. Or so I thought. Maybe she was receiving the briefing for her next meet.

All I know is that this morning, she essentially told me, “Dad, when the shit comes down, stick with me.”

Of course, this weekend she told me she didn’t love me anymore. She quickly changed her mind and said she loved me a little bit. But when she wanted a cup of chocolate milk, she said I was the best daddy in the world.

Assassins. They shouldn’t love, it compromises their jobs. But they’d violate their code for a cup of chocolate milk.

New Information Has Come to Light, Man

Brilliant! The Silmarillion in 1,000 words

Where was this when I read the damn book in high school? I plodded through this sucker thinking, "Wow. This isn't nearly as much fun as The Lord of the Rings. In fact, this feels like work." And it did.

I ended up reading The Hobbit again. Oh Smaug. You silly ole dragon.

Blame it on Boing Boing.

Discuss

Happy Happy Happy

I have CDs. Booty from my birthday. Rock on.

I was given green paper that was valid in exchange for compact discs. I took the opportunity less than 12 hours after receiving said green paper. I’m an addict.

What did I get?

Minus 5—In Rock: Contains one of the best straight out rockers I’ve heard in years. “Lies of the Living Dead” could have charted in 1966. Plus it has that weird sci-fi angle I enjoy. (If I had more money I would have bough the Brain in a Box boxed set from Rhino. It catalogues great music from Sci-Fi TV, movies, pop groups and novelties. I am Geek hear me drool.)

Pet Projects: The Brian Wilson Productions: Contains the Wilson-penned Glen Campbell song “Guess I’m Dumb” plus nuggets of second shelf Wilson poppy goodness from bands people forgot before they came out. Good for a collector. Still, has some great, fruity, minty, sixties pop.

Antonio Carlos Jobim: Jazz Masters 13: Which is just another way of saying, “Greatest Hits”. What can I say? I love the samba. Jobim was a master. Call it easy listening if you want, but very little beats the Brazilian master.

Astrud Gilberto: The Diva Series: Nothing beats Jobim except one of the best voices to ever sing Jobim. Astrud has a smoky, thick, sensual voice that makes me want to finder her in 1966 and marry her. Say what you will, but “Agua de Beber” and “Corcovado: Quiet Nights of Quiet Stars)” will be spinning for a long, long time. She’s dreamy, in that hip, sensual, sixties, Brazilian sort of way.

I’m a dork, I know.

But I like it that way.

Plug a Quarter in My Juke Box

You Must Start All Over Again

At first I was really upset about this. It's sacrilege and all that. Don't mess with Joe Strummer. The Clash is sacred. Didn't Annie Lennox already do enough damage?

Then I realized something. If the technology (and Outkast for that matter) had been around when the Clash recorded this it may have sounded something like Spanish Bombs (Over Baghdad).

Discuss This Or Something

Um

I think they've been probing each other for years now.

Unfortunate choice of words there . . .

Mmmmmm. Sidekicky.

It's the phone I love. It's the phone I hate. It tortures me. Yet it treats me so well. It's like that girl I had a crush on in high school. Except for the treat me so good part because, well, she ripped out my heart, danced on it, then inflated the chambers with monkey farts. But the phone is cool, despite all its problems.

Soon here will be The Sequel. Judging by the photo it's, well, cool. The quality of the photos suck, that's true, but it looks amazingly cool.

Cool enough, in fact, that when I finally buy mine, I may flip it open the first time and yell, "Maltz! Choey Chu!" (Sorry my Klingon spelling and grammar is rusty.)

Or, better yet, I'll flip it open and say, "Look at us. Is this what you want? You've... pitted us against each other... like animals in a cage. For what? Do you know what it is to feel... to... Love?"

KAHN!

Discuss The SDK2.0

Song of the Day

From the altar of the Three Chords comes an anthem for those who need no anthem.

And it's a fun damn song.

"Find Something Beautiful" by The Master Plan.

Worth every penny of the free download. And you should by the album.

I have a whole list of albums you should buy.

Call me.

I'll give it to you.

I'm kidding.

Seriously.

I don't really want to talk to anyone right now.

It's personal.

I'm feeling guarded.

Stop hounding me.

Go listen to the song.

That is all.

Peace out my brotha!

Find Something Beautiful

Strangest Moment of the Weekend

Honestly, I thought it would be when Gertrude was singing a Randy Newman song ("Feels Like Home", which we had sung at our wedding) in the car on Saturday. But on Sunday she beat that.

Walking through the grocery store, suddenly without warning, Gert shouts out:

"Come on let's wock and woll with the Wamones."

Thunderstruck, I said, "What did you say?" She repeated it, then continued the song:

"Wock and wock and woll wadio, let's go!"

She's TWO! How could she possible remember when I listened to "Do You Remember Rock & Roll Radio?" by the Ramones? What else does she remember? Add to this that she was singing an obscure and difficult Randy Newman song earlier. Out of the blue (her version):

"There's something in my eyes that makes me want to lose myself . . . There's something in your voice that makes my heart beat fast. FEELS LIKE HOME! HOME TO ME!"

She's starting to scare me. Honestly.

Though . . . Joey Ramone died about six months before she was born. Maybe she is imbued with his spirit? Come to think of it, her first sounds did sound a lot like, "Gabba gabba hey".

Will she start her own punk band? With her personality, I can see it.

But maybe I better shelve some of the other more, um, colorful albums for about eighteen years . . .

Gabba Gabba Hey

Because I Can

I added a link to this on the nav bar (got the idea from David's blog). Why did I do it?

That's right.

Because I can.

Don't you want to see what I'm listening to?

Please disregard any stupid tagging issues of the files.

Hit Me One Time!

Auditory Dislocation

This weekend I was quietly sitting sandwiched between Gertrude and Matilda watching the beginning of a silly, teenie-bopper movie called What a Girl Wants. Gertrude wasn’t really watching. Nor was she really sitting willingly. I sort of had her in an iron grip backwards hug so that Mom could get ready for her Grandma’s birthday party without having a toddler question her bra choice.

After watching an extended prologue that explains that the femme hero’s father is some hoity toity nobleman living in London, though she’s never met him, and her mother is a free-spirit, trashed-up wedding band trollop. Femme hero longs for a father figure in her life and, despite the evident squalor the family is living in, she picks up and heads off for London. The next two hours are spent with her waiting in line to make it through airport security and, hopefully, make her plane.

Actually she apparently teleports straight from her non-descript, sunny, California town straight to the top of a double decker bus trolling the streets of London, while she looks out like Mary Tyler Moore shortly after discovering club drugs. (I’m making fun, but I was actually enjoying the movie.)

It was at this point that cognitive dissonance hit (coupled with Gertrude drooling on my arm). After seeing a picturesque view of the Tower of London (as picturesque as any place were executions occurred can be, I suppose) I notice some familiar shunted guitar chords, backed by driving drums and one hell of a bass line. Then:

London calling to the faraway towns
Now that war is declared-and battle come down
London calling to the underworld
Come out of the cupboard, all you boys and girls
London calling, now don't look at us
All that phoney Beatlemania has bitten the dust
London calling, see we ain't got no swing
'Cept for the ring of that truncheon thing

Of course, I thought to myself, why not use this song to really sell the idea of visiting London. My favorite part of this upbeat travelogue:

London calling to the imitation zone
Forget it, brother, an' go it alone
London calling upon the zombies of death
Quit holding out-and draw another breath
London calling-and I don't wanna shout
But when we were talking-I saw you nodding out
London calling, see we ain't got no highs
Except for that one with the yellowy eyes

That’s what I love about the Clash. The way they could paint a beautiful picture of violets and daffodils. Quiet, ambling streets, relaxing tea, and people with yellowy eyes. And never political! No, the Clash always tended toward a bubblegum punk. Those cheeky gents.

This has always been one of my favorite Clash songs. But I never expected to hear it during a happy moment in the midst of a sugary pre-teen fantasy (you know the preteen fantasy, that your long lost dad is really a powerful and rich English Lord from whom you learn a measure of maturity while you teach him to be spontaneous and, hopefully, to love your mom again). To their credit, they didn’t edit the song to be a peppy shout out to London. They left it in tact. But still. It was a shock, to say the least.

It makes you think, however. Look at your grandma. These days, as she’s going through the winter of her life, she probably spends her time listening to the music of her youth. Maybe it’s Edith Pilaf. Perhaps Vera Lynn. Vaughan Monroe, Bing Crosby, or, in my wife’s grandma’s case, King of the Polka, Frankie Yankovic and his Yanks.

My point is that the elderly listen to age-appropriate music. They drop the needle on their aging turntable and listen to the music of their youth.

Flash forward thirty years when my brother will be 80. He’s sitting in his rocking chair, with a blanket over his legs. He gets up slowly in his dusty home and pulls out a disc, placing it in the tray and presses play. On the cover of the CD his grandchildren swear they see four men standing in front a strangely stained concrete obelisk, zipping up their pants. But surely that’s not possible. Out of the high-quality speakers you hear the opening, synthetic strains of “Baba O’Reilly.” They roll their eyes with each pronouncement of a “teenage wasteland”.

This same scene could happen with “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds”, or “Purple Haze”. Down the hall it may be “Anarchy in the U.K.” or, more appropriately, the soothing, dulcet tones of “I Wanna Be Sedated”.

What the kids will hear in the music of my brother’s generation, and to a lesser extent, mine, will be a freedom. A sense of joy at breaking out of the bonds set upon you and just . . . rocking. The music of their parents’ generation will be marred by the attempt to shock and one-up. Sure, this occurred in all stages of popular music, but it was never an embedded industry standard (see Nelly, Marilyn Manson, Dr. Dre, Eminem). This is not to say the music may not be worthy. If there is a message, it’s being obscured by the shock. But for the most part the message and the sense of joy and freedom you got from the first and middle stages of rock have been replaced by a preening mastership of the grotesque and vulgar.

I won’t deny my own enjoyment of those two on a semi-regular basis. However, compare the rude freedom of Buddy Holly’s “Rave On” or the Beatles’ version of “Bad Boy” with the craven dankness of Marilyn Manson’s “Disposable Teens”.

One is the sound of a youth revolution getting off the ground, the other the sound of a calculated image machine bent on pissing off parents.

A good youth revolution does that on principle. Not on purpose.

Viva La Revolution!

Perspective

My mother in law called my wife to let her know that Gertrude "went poopie" on the big girl potty. Apparently it was a significant contribution to the annals of human waste.

I'm proud of her, of course. As proud as you can be about feces being planted in the proper container. But it made me question my own accomplishments.

What if I peaked the day I managed to use the toilet for the first time? What if, at my funeral, everyone is standing around saying:

"Gary was a miserable son of a bitch."

"Useless too."

"But, damn, he could use a toilet."

Sleep Come Free Me

I can’t sleep. Well, I can fall asleep, but I can’t stay asleep. I wake up frequently and just lay there. When I finally do fall asleep, I feel I’m waterskiing on the surface of unconsciousness.

It’s starting to take its toll. I can’t concentrate very well. I’m starting to get snippy (more so than usual) and I’m making even less sense than normal. Yesterday at lunch I was hit with sudden waves of nausea that were so all-consuming that I had to lay down and sleep right there.

Anyway, I’m tired. And in the midst of a musical obsession that I can’t seem to quench or define. All I know is I need more and I can’t get it quick enough.

It’s to the point where I created a weird playlist for myself that goes so far to many extremes that I can’t quite understand it myself. But it’s tied to that undefined obsession.

Example of how bad it is? 1269 songs wasn’t quite good enough. So I had to add more Eric Burdon to it. Geez.

But it’s a pretty groovy track list. But now I have another stack of CDs to rip and add to it. Doug Sahm, Rusty Zinn, Nick Lowe, Louis Jordan, Sam & Dave and more and more and more.

Someone stop me.

Wake Up Gary!

Easter Update

Matilda treated the whole thing with a marked indifference as if this whole scene was so last year.

We saw snakes at a park.

I had dirty socks in my pocket. They were not mine.

Gertrude was wired from about 3 p.m. on Friday until this morning when I found her vibrating in her bed at 7 a.m. I think she was glowing too.

That is all. Please return to your regularly scheduled boredom and frustration.

Discuss

Creepy Church

Just went by the creepy church. They are using the crosses this year. There are people on the crosses. Actual people playing out the passion.

I'm cool with that. But the way it was lit and the sudden shock of Jesus' amply blood soaked rags took us all off guard. Matilda screamed and is still a little bit disturbed. She keeps saying, "that's not right."

I have to agree. This church has plenty of land. Did they have to hold their reenactment of the crucifixion facing a major street? Under floodlights? Next to a Kindercare? With so much blood? And fires burning below the crosses?

Honestly, I wonder what the kids who live across the street are feeling right now.

And, look, I grew up Catholic. We're all about the blood.

And, no, we're not talking a reverential service. This was meant to be disturbing and shocking. I'm a little pissed. I actually feel somewhat assaulted.

Sing it Jack, Baby!

You know, Jack Webb was much cooler than I thought.

Or maybe not.

A Special Thanks

To Jeff Barry and Ellie Greenwich. For without them, two of the greatest gibberish songs of the modern era wouldn't have been written.

I salute them today for:

Da Doo Ron Ron
Do Wah Diddy

They did not, however, write Diddy Wah Diddy, which would have been a natural progression. That song, however, was written by a Diddley. Definitive cover version by Barry and the Remains. You can argue about the Captain Beefheart version, but you won't get very far.

One Reason Why "Gloria" by Them is a Good Song

The letter "I". Sure, "G", "L", "O", "R" and "A" are all perfectly good letters. But the first time Van Morrison spells out Gloria, he really emphasizes the letter "I". For a five foot four girl, she has one hell of an "I".

It goes something like this:

Her name is

G (said with a rasp)

L (with a little bite)

O (the letter you'd think would get the most attention because, in and of itself, it is infinity. It never stops, both visually and aurally.)

R (a little pirate, but nothing too special)

I (said, "eye yaiyaiyaiyaiyaiyaiyaiyaiyaiyaiyaiyaiyaiyai)

A (doesn't even warrant a mention until the second, more repetitive, spelling)


Without that "I" "Gloria" is just another gritty garage rock song. With that "I" it's a biting song about teenage longing, societal norming, repressive governmental systems, six cylinder engines and the rising price of candy at the movie theater.

Behold and enjoy the "I".

This post brought to you by the letter "I".

Easter and Such

I'm going on mental vacation starting . . . Now. This weekend is Easter, which is about Jesus raising from the dead and such. Most of the traditions were stolen from the Pagans. They stole most of them from a guy named Norman. So, you know how it goes.

Our local creepy church, down the street, you know the kind, they always take things one step too far, has planted their three crosses again. Nice. I hope they grow a Messiah this year. Last year they left the three crosses up until it was far past their time. Yes, they went from being, "Oh hey look, crosses" to, "Oh hey, look, there's snow on the crosses. And one fell over."

So, uh. I should probably go before I'm doused in lighter fluid and burst into flames.

"O'Brien, Bistro table for one in hell."

I hear the Banana's Foster are to die for there. Literally.

I should be seeing Stereolab tonight. But I'm not. Stereolab probably won't be in hell.

But Keith Moon will be. It balances out.

Discuss Save My Soul

How Did This Happen?

When Elvis started out, he sounded cool. Like this.

After he started taking enough drugs to make an elephant impotent, he sounded like this.

This doesn't make sense. Other acts, like the Beatles, got cool and psychedelic after drugs. Elvis gets fat and cheesy? This makes no sense. How did he go from being banned from being shot from the waist down on television to being, well, music your parents like? It's sad.

And yet . . . I'm oddly drawn to fat, corny, sad Elvis.

I'm scared. Hold me.

No, really, it's okay. I'm already holding myself.

Why are you running away?

Alright. Enough music. Go here.

Salt Peanuts

In 1960, in what may have been the equivalent to the high-pitched version of the Monkees to the Chipmunks’ Beatles, jingle composer Don Elliot and some goofball named “Sascha” Burland decided to make a band called The Nutty Squirrels.

You see, they sing in high-pitched voices. Just like the Chipmunks! But they’re squirrels! And they don’t sing regular songs! No, they’re scat squirrels!

They never met with the same success rate as their other vermin friends because, well, squirrels don’t have the cute cheeks that chipmunks have and, squirrels are silent and deadly killers. But that’s a long story.

So, pretty much everyone involved in this little group is dead, for better or worse, but their music lives on. And, as fate would have it, my stupid need to own all sorts of strange music because, “You just never know when you might need it”, has caused us to possess some Nutty Squirrels.

That was all well and good. Until Gertrude discovered it. The first time she heard it she laughed. Not giggled, but laughed. Laughed in the same way you would laugh if you saw the President throw in the first pitch at a baseball game, he misses, beans Ashcroft who falls down on the entire Justice Department and then Ashcroft comes up to the Prez and says, “Wiseguy, eh?” and pokes him in the eye (just a random thought). This kid wet herself laughing. Which, of course, is okay because she still wears diapers.

It was cute. So we played it again. Mom took the song in the car and they listened to it there too. Well . . . She’s addicted. Now whenever Mom gets in the car, she has to listen to scat-singing squirrels for a very, very long time.

As you can imagine, it’s starting to weigh upon her and she’s longing to hear “Jump, Swish, Shimmy” from the JoJo’s Circus soundtrack.

No, we had to have a musically adventurous kid. Yargh.

I guess I should be happy, though. She could be holding an old mechanic’s work lamp as a microphone and lipsynching to this song.

Of course, right now I’m dancing around my office to the Bar-Kay’s “Soul Finger”. Maybe I’m not the best judge of odd behavior . . .

Lay Your Groove On Me

Yeah

I'll bet this guy isn't married.

Second Verse, Same as the First!

I have to thank Jeff for pointing out that (The Real) Tuesday Weld has a new album out. Not in the U.S., of course. Because that would just be silly. But you can pick it up in the U.K. Or you can use that fabulous InterWebNetConnect to dial up a web page and order it, paying excessive shipping fees, of course.

Jeff kindly shoved me toward the video for "Bathtime in Clerkenwell". It would have fit nicely on Where Psyche Meets Cupid, right between "At the House of the Clerkenwell Kid" and "Terminally Ambivalent Over You".

Watch it. Really. Don't make me angry.

It's addictive. Makes me want the album. Maybe I will dial up the InterWebNet and try and see if International Commerce is all it's cracked up to be.

Groove to Your Own Internal Vibe Here

Don’t You Step on My Blue Swede Couch

In a stunning turn of international fiscal events, it seems that Bill Gates has been usurped in his status as the world's richest, ugly man. The world's new richest man is (drum roll) Ingvar Kamprad.

You may not have heard of him, but you've probably sat on his work. Ingvar is the founder of IKEA, the interchangeableble, minimalist furniture that goes with everything, especially itself.

In order for Ingvar to take over this post, he will need to make the following changes to his company strategy:

1. All IKEA furniture must be bundled with more IKEA products that you won't need. For example, if you buy an IKEA bed, you also must buy IKEA plates. Otherwise, the bed won't work.

2. All IKEA furniture will come with proprietary screws that will require you to hire professionals to insert and turn them, as the proprietary screws will require proprietary screw drivers. Fear not, because after spending $1000 you can be certified to use the screw driver.

3. All IKEA furniture will only work with other IKEA furniture, or otherwise approved furniture developed for IKEA. Therefore, if you want to put your feet up when you sit in your IKEA chair, you must buy an IKEA ottoman. Or an IKEA compatible ottoman.

4. In order to use your IKEA furniture, you must use a unique activation code. Each piece of IKEA furniture will only be able to be used in one room. If you want to move your IKEA desk from one office to another you will have to buy a new user license.

5. Finally, all home builders will be required to optimize their floor plans for IKEA furniture. You can use other brands of furniture in your home, but you may not be able to see the coffee table you install, and that picture may not ever hang straight.

With these simple steps, the most Righteous and Revered Master Ingvar Kamprad will be poised to take over as not only the richest man on Earth, but the most evil.

He thanks you in advance for your unasked for and, quite frankly, unwilling, support.

Discuss

Mmmmmmmm

Cookies.

Blame Boing Boing.

Or don't.

I'm Pretty in Pink, Beyach!

My worst fears have been confirmed. Matilda, at the ripe young age of eight, is in a gang. It's true. According to Merrillville, Indiana schools, my daughter has a tell-tale sign of gangdom. I always knew Indiana was a hot bed of gang activity.

Here's the thing. Matilda left for a Brownie event wearing pink pants, a pink shirt, and a pink floppy hat that made her look like Ethel Merman's nightmare version of Jungle Jim. Except for the Brownie vest, it was all pink. If a sudden taffeta explosion occurred at a prom dress factory, we wouldn't be able to find her.

Here I thought she was just being a little girl. I didn't know she had joined a new gang. In fact, almost all of her friends, all girls, were wearing some form of pink. Maybe this "Brownies" thing is just a cover . . . And Ryan Seacrest is their gang leader!

This actually does explain quite a bit. This morning when she asked me for her allowance I told her I didn't have any money on me at the moment.

"The f*** you mean you ain't got my money yet," she cried. "The f*** you mean you don't got my money yet? You best pay me my motherf*****' money."

She then stomped off to her room yelling something about getting a "gak" and "popping a cap in my ass".

"Oh, those crazy kids and their Nickelodeon language," I said.

Discuss